And Eames Runs
by Arty d'Arc
Summary: The surf licks at his feet and Eames runs. He gathers driftwood as it comes into shore. There's nothing else to do. So he collects the wood piece by piece and builds a pyre for a body that isn't there. Sequel to And Arthur Runs.
1. Part One

"And Eames Runs"

"_I stand amid the roar_

_Of a surf-tormented shore"_

-—-

The surf licks at his feet and Eames runs.

He gathers driftwood as it comes into shore. He doesn't have to. He can create the pyre easily, if he wants (just has to close his eyes, picture it, and it is) but he likes the semblance of work. Likes pretending that this is what wood does, that it just comes in with waves and dries in his hands. It distracts him, and there's nothing else to do. The world is quiet, save for the birds. The sun never sets or moves and neither do the clouds; it's just Eames. Just Eames, running and running.

There's nothing else to do. So he collects the wood piece by piece and builds a pyre for a body that isn't there.

-—-

"_I think it looks brilliant."_

_Arthur's hands twitched as they gripped the armrests, testing. He looked up and glared at Eames through the mirror. No words, but Eames still smirked, rushing in to defend himself: "What? I'm being honest. You look like Patrick Stewart. You know, in that movie." _Maybe not quite as fit_, he thought, but it was no use explaining the Picard crush just this second._

_Arthur rolled the chair back, slowly, hands shaking but trying to firm up judging by the way his eyebrows furrowed. He turned left and right, the trifold mirror coming back at him to show every angle. He stopped; met eyes with his reflection._

"_I look like Christopher Reeve."_

"_Nah. I never did like Superman."_

"_That's not what I meant."_

"_I know."_

_Arthur's eyes flicked to Eames' reflection, then back to his own, and not for the first time Eames wondered what he saw there, as he sat back with hands settled in his lap. He still looked the same, when he was still. Regal if cold, strong features stone-set and eyes half-drawn. Was it a comfort? Or just a reminder he really wasn't?_

"_I don't think I need this," Arthur said, eyes not leaving the mirror. _

"_You keep falling with the crutches."_

"_That's not what I meant."_

I know_. But he ignored the topic, moving on to "Are the crutches really any better?"_

_Arthur didn't answer, and Eames smiled; stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Arthur's neck. He knew that too. Yes, they were._

_The crutches, as unwieldy as they were, looked temporary. _

-—-

The surf licks at his feet and Eames runs.

He has enough wood now, he thinks, to burn a giant if he so chose. The pile's to his head, and wide enough that he has to crane his head in from the far side to get a complete picture.

He runs anyway. It's not enough. It never seems enough. His legs never tire and the shore spits it up whether he's there to collect it or not. Maybe that's what he's waiting for. Some sort of cue that it's done. It would be nice. But his legs never tire and the sun never sets and so he keeps on running, collecting the wood and piling it up. It's more wall than pyre now but he might as well.

The shoreline goes on forever. There's always more wood to be found.

-—-

"_You going to lie in that bed forever?"_

_Silence. Eames turned to the door, taking the doorknob. It felt like ice in his hand._

"_Fine then." _

_But he held on. Waited. . . waited . . ._

_Heard, "I'm not using the chair"_

_Eames relaxed his grip. He turned back, leaning against the door as he crossed his arms. "Well," he said, "I could carry you, darling, but I think you'd only find that worse."_

_Arthur's face scrunched up so fast, Eames couldn't help it. He had to laugh._

-—-

The surf licks at his feet and Eames runs.

He hears the birds, flying overhead, and while he doesn't recognize the songs, he's hunted a few times as a child and he knows the forms. This one an owl, this one a Jay; there's even a red tail, regal if cold. Eames always liked them best. They fly together and Eames feels a little guilty. In nature, it'd be impossible. _But then, this is hardly nature_, he reminds himself. He can't blame them for grouping up here. How else can they remember how to fly?

So he runs, cataloguing in his head, and follows them into a cove he doesn't remember. One of Arthur's creations._ It must be_, he thinks, seeing how very average it is. Torches on the wall light his path but other than that, he sees nothing but cave walls and stalagmites (stalactites? He can't remember and doesn't care, Arthur's not here to annoy anyway) as he slows to a walk.

It's only when he comes out the other side and ends up where he started that he thinks to look down at the footprints that aren't his own.

-—-

_The ride back was silent, but Eames didn't try to fill it. By now it was a routine. Every Wednesday, his life went: Wake up. Enjoy hours of Arthur's bantering and nervous shifting. Drive Arthur to Dr. Mack. Drive him back in absolute quiet. Scrape him off the chair that he seemed spread too thin on and know that tomorrow things would be normal again until the next week._

_In short: Eames didn't like Wednedays._

_He didn't like Mack either. She was soft and presumptuous, marshmallow sticking to your fingers and never letting go. She asked too many questions, smiling and hesitating as she did them like a sweet little doe, and that was just with Eames. Arthur came home after sessions with her as wound up as Eames had ever seen him: pale and quiet and tight, all sharp twitches and turns. They argued. Eames didn't know what about and Arthur never mentioned (that was also part of the routine). It was like going back to the old days, when Arthur slept and Eames ran, from Cobb to Ariadne to Yusuf and finally to Mack. Arthur sat there and thought he betrayed nothing, and Eames saw everything: the red in his cheeks, the shaking in his hands, the hoarseness in his voice._

_But Eames never asked, and so Arthur never explained. Until today. Until Eames pulled into the garage and stopped the car and heard:_

"_I don't want to go there again."_

"_I know."_

"_Could I not?"_

"_Wasn't she your idea in the first place, love? Seems like your fault for being responsible."_

_Arthur looked away. Leaned his head against the glass. "Why do you call me that?"_

"_I've always called you that."_

"_You do it more often now."_

Caught at last. _Eames pulled the key out of the ignition and smiled. He stretched over, whispered in Arthur's ear, "It was your subconscious that gave me the tip, darling."_

_Arthur shifted against his breath, and though he couldn't see Eames could imagine his eyebrows twisting in frustration. "You can't really use dream invasion as a pick up line," he said. But there was no hostility behind the words, just slow strained notes of exhaustion, and Eames pressed on with kisses in a line down his neck, saying: _

"_Come on, it's a classic. 'Get out of my dreams and into my car'?"_

"_I have no idea what you're talking about."_

_One last kiss, right at his nape. "You always did lack taste, Arthur."_

"_I don't want to go again."_

_Eames drew back and Arthur's eyes moved with him, almost apologizing for the sudden break of the atmosphere. But he didn't say more and Eames cleared his throat and just said again:_

"_I know."_

"_I mean it, Eames. I mean more than that. I'm deciding this. I don't want to go again and I'm not going to. And don't say 'I know', okay?"_

"_Okay."_

"_Because you always say that. And you don't."_

I know.

-—-

The sand sinks in between his toes. Fills his nails and scratches his skin. He slips, falls on fragments of a shell and scrapes his knees.

But Eames runs. He runs until the footsteps are his own again and no one else's, can't belong to anyone else. He runs until it's safe to look again. He doesn't want to see. Doesn't need to see, and isn't meant to. Arthur could have shown him this, if he wanted. Could've invited him, could've told him, could've done many things but he didn't. Just because Eames stumbles on it by accident, just because Arthur can't complain—it doesn't mean he's entitled to it. He shouldn't look.

Or so he tries to tell himself.

It's easy to be the hero in your head.

-—-

"_**He can't just not come**__."_

_Mack always sounded a tad different on the phone. Like as long as she didn't have to look at you she could say whatever she wanted however she wanted. Eames liked her better this way._

"_I know."_

"_**Mr. Eames. Please. You say that a lot, and I'm not seeing any proof.**__"_

_Slightly. He liked her_ slightly _better this way._

"_I've known Arthur for almost fifteen years," he said, popping up on the counter. From the tub, Arthur mouthed something. Probably the exact number, but Eames couldn't tell, the lip movements cut off by a cough. "Have never been able to convince him of a damn thing," he continues. "You expect me to do it now?"_

_Arthur raised his eyebrow (_I'm not that stubborn_), and Eames wriggled his own back at him (_Yes, you are, dear, but that's what I love about you_), as Mack sighed. There was a pause, and he could see her in his head, trying in vain to scuff up that lovely walnut chair Arthur had bought her. "__**Just try? He doesn't need to see me every week, if he wants. That was more for his benefit than mine—**__"_

_That caught his attention. He glanced at Arthur. Switched ears in time to hear, "__**—I'm scared that he's not going to come when I do need to see him. And I can't—**__"_

"_Define 'for his benefit', would you, doctor?"_

_Mack stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, Eames caught another flick of the eyebrows from Arthur (_What are you even talking about?_) and he shifted more towards the door, till the tub was completely out of view._

"_.__** . . Well**__," she said, "__**it was his idea. Something like dream therapy.**__"_

_The phone burned hot against his ear as he switched again. He cleared his throat. "Huh."_

"_**But, well, we had a few . . . disagreements. Personally if he's done with it, I can't say I'm disappointed.**__"_

"_Right. Doctor, you mind if I ring you some other time?"_

"_**What? No. You always say that and you never do.**__"_

"_Then far be it from me not to continue a fine tradition." He disconnected. Smacked the phone against countertop as quick as he could. His ears still burned._

"_Eames?"_

_He leapt off the counter. Slipped off his sandals and kicked them behind, as he unbuttoned his shirt. _

"_Uh, Eames?"_

_The underwear was the last to go, and he flung it onto the sink as he stepped into the tub, pulling Arthur up by his arms to slide in underneath and ignoring the string of curses that resulted._

"_Fuck, you're getting water everywhere! There's barely enough room for me in this thing!"_

_Eames didn't respond. Just laid Arthur over him and wrapped an arm around his waist. The smell of fresh shampoo, a mix of melon and apple and some herb Eames probably couldn't pronounce, hit him as Arthur slowly settled, his head falling on Eames' shoulder._

"_She told you," whispered Arthur._

_Eames tightened his grip. "How'd you know?"_

"_You're trying to distract me. It's a cheap trick, by the way. As usual."_

"_Life's full of cheap tricks." _

"_You're full of cheap tricks," Arthur mumbled, and Eames felt himself smirk, just for a second._

"_As are you, apparently. But you show me yours and I'll show you mine."_

-—-

The surf licks at his feet and Eames runs.

And then, he doesn't.

He kicks at a stone, and it hits the water with a splash, too small to count. He kicks at the pyre instead; feels something in him fall into place and so he grabs a branch and begins to bash. And bash. And bash. The pile falls and splinters and crows roosting at the ends fly off caws that piece his ears.

And Eames bashes, and bashes, until his hands burn and his eyes burn and the pyre that became a wall is gone. There's just driftwood by the shore, drifting back into the sea and out of his hand as he stands, never tired but not awake.

Arthur would say, "It seems a little counterproductive, don't you think?"

Eames doesn't need to hear it to know, but the Arthur gripping him by his wrist says it all the same.

-—-

"_The fact I hid it . . . it doesn't mean anything."_

"_I know."_

"_You always say that."_

I know.

-—-

_**to be continued .**_

_Many thanks as always to the beautiful and wonderful Audley for betaing like a fiend. The second half is done. Just needs to be edited/rewritten a tad/a lot. It'll be up soon._

_The snippet of a poem remains Edgar Allen Poe's "A Dream Within a Dream"._


	2. Part Two

"_The fact I hid it . . . it doesn't mean anything."_

_"I know."_

_"You always say that."_

_I know._

-—-

Arthur spoke in starts. There was a warning in that, Eames felt. Arthur was always thorough, methodically moving from A to Z with such clarity an idiot could follow his instructions. But today, breathing and coughing against Eames' chest (apologizing for the latter, always, as if Eames could ever mind), it was nothing but A's: main ideas and no follow-up, no conclusion.

"When I dream, I'm completely healthy," he said.

"ALS doesn't normally have any effect on the mental functions," he said.

"And of course, dream time works differently—we could lead a whole life in a few hours," he said.

A, A, A. But never the words, never the actual concept, and when the water was cold and Arthur was done, shivering and clinging tighter (as much as he could), Eames finally just tightened his grip around Arthur and cut through to Z.

"You want to go into Limbo."

Arthur coughed. And then he couldn't, gasped, until Eames pulled him up further.

"Thanks," he whispered. "And it's just a thought."

"Good. Let's keep it that way, yeah?"

Arthur turned his head in to Eames' chest, his cheek wet with a film of soap and water. He took a breath, and another, until he sounded decent. "I could stand to talk about it a little more, actually."

"You're mental."

"Because you're so sane."

"Were you planning on telling me any of this?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

The sigh is warm across his collarbones, a slow shaky hiss. "You're the whole point of this. I just . . . wasn't sure how you'd react. Clearly I wasn't wrong."

"So, what? Did you think you'd jump me and jam an IV into my arm? Because—"

He stopped. Realized what he just said. _Shit._

_ShitshitshitshitshitSHIT._

"That's not what I meant."

But Arthur smiled, and Eames felt it flick across his skin. "But that's what I mean," he said. "I want it normal again. I want you to call me a, a—fuck, an unimaginative pussy, I don't know. And I want to ignore it like a normal person."

"Normal's not what I'd call you, darling."

"That's a start."

Eames laughed. It hurt his throat and he tilted his head back, ugly cracks (_Arthur was going to fill those_, he remembered) staring back at him. He couldn't think of an argument. Only:

"But it won't be real."

Arthur coughed. "Reality's overrated," he said, with a voice that shouldn't belong to him, and Eames couldn't say a word.

-—-

_Eames runs. Trips over driftwood and falls backward, enough that he can catch sight of a smile as the Arthur walks closer. His hair's impeccable, combed back and fresh of melons and apples and herbs that probably don't exist here because Eames can't pronounce them. He's young, somewhere in the very early thirties, as his face hints of lines and wrinkles but they aren't there yet. But he's dressed almost casually, white linen shirt over slacks and suspenders loose around his waist and Eames can't be sure anymore so he asks. _

"_You a projection of him or his evil twin?"_

_There's a laugh and a hand that dangles, grabbing with long fingers even though Eames doesn't take it. And the Arthur says, "You're the one that dressed me."_

_Eames sits up, brushing the sand off his legs. He looks away. Locks eyes on the surf moving in and out. "I'd never dress him like that," he says. "He'd think I would though, way I always went on about it."_

"_Maybe you didn't want to trick yourself."_

"_Seems like a cheap trick to me."_

"_Life's full of cheap tricks, isn't it?"_

"_You don't get to make that joke."_

_There's a cough—different though. A noise just for the sake of it before he apologizes. "Sorry."_

"_You don't get to apologize either. It's not your fault."_

It's his. Fucking bloody stupid shit for brains gormless fucking fuck fucker—

_And there are arms around him and though he shakes them off and pulls them away they always come back until he can't do it anymore._

-—-

"This is really very—"

"Common," Eames finished, stopping Mack in her tracks. She bit her lip.

"Yeah," she squeaked. "How'd you know?"

He just smiled.

She eyed him, but continued, "Well, as you know, as the disease progresses, breathing becomes very difficult. Pneumonia's always a concern, due to food and . . . you know. Drink, like water, juice, whatever, getting into the lungs. If we keep him here, he should be fine."

"I see." He leaned to the side, looking past Mack to the hospital bed. "Did you hear that, Arthur? If you stay here, you'll be fine."

Arthur didn't meet his eyes. Mack's head whipped back and forth between them, eyebrows furrowing, before she settled back on Eames. " . . . I feel like . . . I interrupted something?"

"More or less, Doctor."

"Could we have a minute?" Arthur whispered from the bed, and Mack jumped.

"What? No!"

"No, Doctor," Eames jumped in, standing up and taking her by the arm, "I think that's a splendid idea."

"Mr. Eames, I really, really think if anything, we're the ones that need to talk alone."

"No, not really."

"Yes. Because while the infection is manageable, this does set up a whole run of new—"

_No. _

He shoved her out the door, locking it, and shut his eyes. The door shook, beat down by her fists . . . and then stopped.

He let out a breath and looked at Arthur. Arthur on the bed, looking at him now with half-lidded eyes. Arthur with tubes and IVs creeping in and out of him. _Like a car engine_, he thought. _Running on something other than himself. _

"You okay?" he asked, and Eames shook it off.

"Fine, love."

Eames pushed himself off the door and climbed onto the bed, inching closer till their knees bumped together through the blanket. Arthur stared though, disbelief written clear on his brow."Is this your idea of a guilt trip?"

"More or less, maybe."

The electronic beat of Arthur's heart pounded in his head (it always did—it was what he remembered most strongly about these rooms), aside from the sting of antiseptic. He tried to ignore it, and asked with a shaky breath, "You're sure about this?"

"Can always change my mind if I'm not."

_But will you then?_ he thought, the beat pounding on.

"We'll come back," Arthur said. "To the hospital. Tomorrow, if you want. Just one night."

_Just one life._

". . . Do you want me to do it?"

Eames shook his head. "No. It's actually worse that way, believe it or not."

And Arthur laughed. He actually could laugh and the weight seemed to grow, forcing down Eames' hand. "Really?" he asked.

Eames swallowed—just a motion, buying time. "Yeah."

And he raised the gun, put it between his eyes, and shot.

-—-

_In what he pretends are dreams, Eames runs._

_In what he pretends is reality, he stays. An Arthur who's not Arthur kisses him senseless. Takes the punches as they come to seed bruises all over pale, young skin. Hugs back tighter when arms reach out needing to grip something, anything._

_Listens, as Eames rambles on with "I'm sorry. Fuck you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you fucking bastard, I did this. I let you do this. Fuck."_

_And Arthur doesn't argue because it's true, every word. _

-—-

Eames woke to sunlight and the feel of surf licking at his feet, and the first thing they did was fuck.

That wasn't the original goal. Limbo was nothing but sand and water, like two different worlds smashed together. Without Cobb's handiwork, they'd have to build themselves and Eames spent months designing to Arthur's impeccable standards ("Urban, all urban." "Turning into a metropolis by the beach, there, Arthur." "I like cities and I like the beach." and "No guns." "Why?" "No weapons. I'm sick of it." and "The sun doesn't set." "Why" "Because nothing sets. Nothing ends."). They'd agreed that creation came first, even lying in those cots, surrounded by Yusuf's dreamers. Creation came first.

And then Eames woke and Arthur launched himself on to Eames and didn't let go, legs wrapped right around him. They crashed into the water and fucked for . . . hours or milliseconds (Eames was never any good at math and couldn't say which one he should count so he didn't try for specifics).

The next thing they did was run. No space in between; Arthur just sprung out and up and down the shoreline, and all Eames could do was catch up.

"I'll never understand you and your marathons," Eames said. "Why run so much?"

"I can."

And that was all.

-—-

_The sun doesn't set but Eames decides it's night when he disentangles himself from the vines of skinny limbs trapping him. He's only just waking up (well, 'waking', he calls it, but it isn't, not really) but he 'slept' when he called it day so it has to be. He sits, naked but warm. Doesn't remember taking off his clothes but doesn't really remember making use of it either so he doesn't let it bother him. _

"_You okay?" Arthur (the Arthur, an Arthur, who-the-fuck-cares-it's-Arthur-now) mumbles into his shoulder, hugging from the back._

_Eames nods. Realizes Arthur can't see it and says, "Yeah."_

_Arthur stands. Just as naked. All there, every scar and bruise and the little birthmark splotchy over his right hip but Eames doesn't look away. "You want to go for a run," he says. Knows. _

_He reaches out a hand and Eames takes it. He stands, grabs a pair of pants._

"_Yeah."_

I need to go.

-—-

"What if something happens? You know, in real life."

Somehow it took a month (Arthur's estimate, not Eames'—_seconds_, he thought, _really)_ to ask, not that Arthur settled down long enough to do it. He'd never been an architect but something about creation had sunk deep into the skin and refused to let go, making buildings and cities and countries—whole places they'd never even probably see, "because he could". Eames had to settle for running after him, which wasn't a problem. Arthur ran and Eames ran after him: you could trace the pattern through their entire life, if you wanted, down to the first time they met, caught up in a turf war over some poor bird's dirtiest deeds.

_Does make conversation difficult though, when you never stop._

Arthur curled over the fence, looking down at the canyon, and Eames pulled him back up by the collar. "Did you hear me?" he asked.

"You're wrinkling my shirt."

"You're wrinkling my good humor; we'll call it even."

Arthur's eyes rolled with the joke, but as he popped up on the fence he pulled Eames in closer, inviting him to sit. "Well, what do you want me to say?" he asked, as Eames climbed on. "If something happens, we'll find out. Why are you even thinking about this?"

_Because I can't not. Because for some reason, you haven't yet, not once._

"Just a question," he said, gripping Arthur's hand tight. "Sorry I asked."

And that was all.

-—-

_The surf licks at his feet and Eames runs, counting the rocks as he collects them in his pockets: _1 . . . 2 . . . 3, 4, 5, 6.

"_We're never going to get anywhere if you keep stopping for rocks." _

7 . . . 8.

"_We're never getting anywhere period, Arthur. Shoreline just keeps going."_

"_I thought we could go to Paris."_

9, 10, 11 . . .

"_I hate Paris."_

"_Someplace else then."_

. . . 12 . . .

"_I need to do this right now."_

"_What, run?"_

"_That too."_

_He drops the rocks in his pockets._ 13.

-—-

"You like it?"

Arthur stood at the bottom of the steps—what Eames decided was the bottom. It was below him for now so it might as well be, but he felt oddly sure he'd have to move up to get to him. Sure enough, the choice is right, and he slid in next to Arthur with a laugh. Five years (Arthur's estimate—_a half hour, maybe?_) and Arthur's favorite part was still the paradox. Staircases that went everywhere and nowhere, loops that ran in a straight line.

"You and Escher want to get a room?" he asked, bringing Arthur in close. "Because I can certainly wait."

"It's not nearly as good."

Eames smirked. "So modest, Arthur. Where's that point man confidence?"

They kissed. And kissed. And Eames had just moved his hand to his zipper when Arthur pulled back and wiped his mouth dry.

"Can I do something first?"

". . . You're killing me here, Arthur."

"It'll just take a second." His hands slid down Eames' skin and moved to his own chest, delving underneath the jacket. After a moment of fumbling, he pulled out the die. With a laugh, Eames dove in again, biting at his ear.

"I can tell you if you're dreaming, darling."

"That's not the point." And he chucked it under the railing, into the gap in the staircase.

Eames listened for the clink—some sort of sound it hit ground, at least. He could look for it later, he didn't need a hint where, he just needed it to be someplace.

He wasn't surprised when it didn't; that it wasn't.

He swallowed—just a motion, buying time. "What'd you do that for?"

"I can."

And that was all.

-—-

_The surf licks at his feet and Eames runs, counting the rocks as he collects:_ 22, 24, 25 and 26.

_He clears his throat. "Can I ask you something? Something only he'd know?"_

"_I guess. If you want. Would it really help?"_

27, 28, 29.

"_Did it bother him? When he remembered. That I couldn't forget."_

_The pause is long, so long, and Eames' air runs short in his lungs. It's a dream, there isn't any air, but no matter how he tells himself this, the feeling doesn't go away, not until Arthur answers:_

"_He never really remembered for long enough, I think."_

30.

-—-

"Dye or no dye?"

"No dye. You look distinguished."

"You're just hoping I go bald. Like what's-his-name."

"Patrick Stewart, darling. He played Picard."

Eames watched for a reaction from his perch on the counter but it didn't come; Arthur's attention was for the mirror alone, as his fingers combed out the white patch and judged it in the light. It was understandable—it was fifteen years ago (Arthur's estimate—_two hours, at the very most_). He didn't have to remember.

But he should.

"I think I'm dying it."

"I never realized you were so vain, Arthur."

"It's just annoying. If it were gray all over, it wouldn't bother me."

_But it shouldn't be gray at all, now, should it? _It should be dark and curled when wet as it was now from the shower; it should frame a face hinting at lines and wrinkles but still free of them for now.

He pulled Arthur in, ignoring the rolling eyes, and ran his fingers through it, rubbing the white between his thumb and forefinger. "I'm the one that's going to look at it, you know."

"And I have to look at you. Tell me how that's fair."

_Tell me why you're young, and I'm old_, Eames heard in his head, but as always, that was all Arthur said. He wasn't sure why; Arthur never minced words. Did he think this was just how it worked? That he'd age away and Eames would remain?

_It's how it is so far, isn't it? Whoever thought it'd be you who couldn't let go?_

"How did we get here, Arthur?"

Arthur's nose scrunched up, wrinkles deepening around his eyes. "You're kidding me, right?"

And that was all.

-—-

_The surf licks at his feet and Eames runs, counting the rocks as he collects them in his pockets:_ 52, 53, 54 and 55.

"_How can you still run?" Arthur asks._

"_Not very well at all, actually."_

_And he stops._ 56, 57, 58. _His legs ache and his pants sag, the belt doing little to support. The birds are silent though, and that's his cue, more than anything: the silence that stabs at his ears as the sun stabs at his eyes, jumping up from the water's surface._

_Arthur tries to calm. "You don't have to do this."_

"_I know."_

"_He left this for you. It was always for you."_

"_I know."_

"_So you don't have to do this."_

"_I know."_

But I can, _he thinks_. Now, right now.

Maybe not ever again.

_And Eames runs._

-—-

"How did I get here?"

Eames turned back. Arthur stood steps behind him, looking around the staircase like he couldn't recognize it somehow, not after twenty years (Arthur's estimate—_two hours, a little over maybe_) of running it. His hands moved up and down the railing, clenching the wood in certain spots, testing, while his other hand combed through his pockets.

Eames laughed. "We ran here."

Arthur shook his head, light shining off the white patches. "No, that's—that's not what I meant."

"Then what'd you mean?"

He pulled off his jacket; turned out the pockets, and flung it aside. His hands jumped to his hair, rifling through it with stiff fingers. "I don't know what I mean."

And then he was gone.

As a dreamer, Eames always wondered.

He should have known the pattern would hold.

If you died in a dream, you woke up.

_And then he was gone._

If you died in limbo, you woke up.

_And then he was gone._

If you died in the real world, you woke up.

And then—

_You're gone._

He should have known the pattern would hold. That, if only for a moment, you'd wake up. Like your brain uncrossed all the wires before it shut down. Put the toys away before dinner. Cleaned out the apartment before the move.

_But I'm still here,_ he thought.

_I'm still here._

As a dreamer, Eames always wondered.

(He should have known the pattern would hold.)

He ran.

Eventually. No one was there to estimate, how long before and for how long he did it. Till wooden steps became paved ground. Till paved ground became harsh sand and cold surf, licking at his feet. Till wood drifted into shore and he thought, _A pyre._

_I'll make a pyre._

Because he could. And that was all.

-—-

_His pockets bulge and bang against his legs, leaving bruises he won't see later, but still he runs. Sand sinks between his toes and shells cut the soles of his feet, and Eames runs. The water rises, pouring into ears and nose and mouth, and Eames runs. His throat burns, pushing to breath and aching to not, and the water pours in._

_He hears his heartbeat, pounding in his head, and he thinks for a second that maybe he's wrong._

And he wakes, IV still clinging to his arm and a beat of an electronic heart still pounding in his head. Bodies of dreamers surround him. They breathe, in and out and in a slow, steady rhythm his gasps break as his lungs steal air in gulps. Yusuf's door is shut, windows dark. Night. It's night. Must be (_finally_). Yusuf's home with his wife, and Eames is . . .

He turns. Pulls out the IV. Sits up, and swings his legs around.

The cot's empty next to him. He's alone.

And Eames runs.

-—-

"_And I hold within my hand_

_Grains of the golden sand-_

_How few! yet how they creep_

_Through my fingers to the deep,_

_While I weep- while I weep!_

_O God! can I not grasp_

_Them with a tighter clasp?_

_O God! can I not save_

_One from the pitiless wave?_

_Is all that we see or seem_

_But a dream within a dream?"_

-—-

_As always, collossal thanks to Audley, who had to put up with this before it was even readable, really. Her insight and unbiased eye helps more than I think she even knows._

_Also, thanks to a user on LJ, who had an amazing prompt that I hope I did justice._

_And, thanks to everyone who reviewed! _

_Inception, as always, does not belong to me._

_Nor does the poem, which remains Edgar Allen Poe's "A Dream Within a Dream"._


End file.
